Every year, as the air turns warmer and the sun becomes brighter, I eagerly anticipate the arrival of spring. I can practically taste the longer days and sounds of the kids playing in the yard. The sight of budding daffodils and tulips brightens my mood, and I love being able to keep the windows open all day without the threat of freezing.
But, though I love the season of renewal and the end of winter’s wrath, I am not a fan of the Easter holiday. Before you choke yourself with that pearl-clutching, I have nothing against the religious aspect of the holiday. In fact, Easter Mass is my favorite because it’s uplifting and inspiring, and often, just what I need after the bleak, gray days of winter.
Rather, I fucking loathe the preparations and traditions that have become associated with Easter, specifically if you have kids. When I found myself in Walmart the night before Easter last year, fighting other stressed-out moms over cheap chocolate bunnies with broken ears and the picked-over selection of jelly beans, marshmallow-shaped chicks, and peanut butter eggs, I realized that assuming the role of the Easter bunny doesn’t make this mom hoppy (see what I did there?).
Easter has become the Christmas of spring, and frankly, it’s exhausting. Why do we have to turn every holiday into another Christmas now? Why is that a thing?
1. Dyeing Easter eggs isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
In theory, the idea of decorating eggs is positively delightful. Colorful orbs resplendent with pretty designs gently nestled in a basket really is a pretty sight. But if you have kids, you know the hell that comes with dyeing those little fuckers. The vinegar stinks to high heaven, you have to boil 48 eggs so that each child gets to dye more than two eggs, and egg dye stains everything from fingers to clothes. Inevitably, the kids lose interest, you wind up hissing orders through asshole lips, and by the end, everyone is crying.
Fuck you, Paas.
2. No one can actually eat that many hardboiled eggs.
Because it’s a sin to waste the 48 eggs you boiled for the Egg Dyeing Egg-stravaganza, the only thing left to do after eating boiled eggs for breakfast three days straight is to make egg salad. And eating egg salad made with eggs that are weird colors for a week is not egg-cellent. Trust.
3. Easter basket grass was invented by an idiot.
I’m not sure who decided that plastic, shredded faux grass was a necessity in Easter baskets, but if I ever find the inventor, I’m going to kick them in the Jujubes. I find that green stuff in every crevice of my house until at least August.
4. Easter is never on the same date, and it screws me up every year.
Listen, I can barely remember to pack lunches on Monday mornings, much less deal with a holiday that isn’t celebrated on the same date every year. Clearly, whoever decided this rule didn’t have kids — and definitely wasn’t a mother. Can’t we just pick a date for Easter and stick with it? Thanks for nothing, Easter bunny.
5. Kids in Easter finery get dirty fast.
I admit, I’m a sucker for little white Easter bonnets and cute white patent leather shoes. What I’m not a fan of is the fact that five minutes after my kids don their Easter finest, they look like they rolled all over the bunny trail. I stopped investing money in fancy, coordinated outfits a long time ago.
6. Black jelly beans can go straight to hell.
Black jelly beans have no business in my Easter basket. Period.
7. The giant rodent myth is just silly.
When I became a mother, no one told me that perpetuating the myth that a giant rodent breaks into our house once a year and leaves chocolate eggs in weird places would feel so wrong. The Easter bunny is a fucking creeper, and I can’t believe my kids aren’t terrorized by the idea of a giant bunny hopping all over their house.
8. Easter baskets have become mini-Christmas mornings.
When I was a kid, my Easter basket contained some Brach’s jelly beans, a generic bunny purchased at Walgreens, and a few peanut butter cups for good measure. Once in a blue moon, maybe we’d get a cassette tape or a pair of socks, and that’s if EB was feeling generous. These days, Easter baskets are no longer baskets. One glance at Facebook on Easter morning shows parents who have lost their damned minds. Tickets to sporting events, wrapped presents, and baskets overflowing with more candy than Dylan’s Candy Bar have become the norm. And it’s not enough to just pretend the Easter bunny dropped and hopped. Nope. Now we have to create scavenger hunts and special clues for the kids to find their pot of gold. Fuck that noise.
9. Peanut butter eggs are only available for a few weeks.
WTF, Reese’s? Seriously, I need to get my peanut butter egg fix year round. Six weeks in the spring does not cover it. And, no, the peanut butter Christmas trees are just not the same.
10. Attending a bazillion Easter egg hunts is exhausting — and boring.
When I was a kid, I can remember going to one Easter egg hunt — ever. Nowadays, everyone and their brother has an Easter egg hunt, and it’s fucking exhausting. And we are expected to eat breakfast with the Easter bunny. And have pictures taken with the giant rodent. And trudge through the grass 17 times in 6 weeks so my kids can fight with other kids over plastic eggs filled with two cheap jelly beans. Admit it: Easter egg hunts have gotten way out of hand.
Yes, I know that my time as the Easter bunny is limited and that there will come a time when I will miss the excited faces flying down the stairs toward their baskets filled with candy and toys that rival Christmas morning. But that time is not now. If anyone needs me, I’ll be hoarding peanut butter eggs in my closet.